


Away From Here

by tortieflower



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortieflower/pseuds/tortieflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You stay like that for a while, (was it seconds? minutes? hours? you aren’t sure,) boneless in his arms, letting him take you, take you away and ravish you, guide you away from this earthly realm with nothing but light touches and sweet nothings."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away From Here

The guy in the bar had been eyeing you over his shades for a while. _What’s his problem?_ You pretend not to notice, sipping your rum and coke. If he has some issue he'll go for it and fuck, you're just plain tired from work. You're reasonably sure you could take him if you had to. You pointedly stare any direction but his and sip slowly, drowning your sorrows. You know it won't help you relax—no amount of soporific liquid could ever achieve such a feat—but it dulls the intensity of your disdain for the universe a little, and that's good enough for you.

He finally decides to saunter over to you, flagging down the bartender and ordering two girly drinks, the ones with colourful umbrellas. "The hell do you want, asshole," you ask, taking the drink from him anyway. _Hey, it's free alcohol._

"What a way to treat a guy, shit look at me I'm swooning." He hoists himself up onto the adjacent bar stool, his slender legs stretching like a spider's. He twirls the drink. "Just figured you looked like a man who's had a rough go is all."

"Do you pick on every sorry prick in here or do I just look especially pitiful today?" You take a cautious sip of the drink, side-eyeing him.

He flicks his shades to sit on his head, and then you notice it. Something under his lazy stare, something that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand. Your grip on the glass tightens. "Pitiful isn't the right word," he says. "Just tense. You got tension just pulsing off you, like a radiating green sun of FML. You're the beacon of self-deprecation that guides my ship to the port of 'I-need-to-get-laid' town." He's tracing patterns on your knee now, and you want to pull away but you _can't_. His touch is–it's magnetic.

You scowl at him, ready to unleash the fire of that goddamn sun upon his smug, leering ass, but you're caught just . . . looking at him.

Wow, how much alcohol was in that drink?

He tilts his head. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong and we can go back to my place for some _therapy_. Doctor Dave Strider in the house, at your service." His moves up your thigh and both the most primitive and the most logical parts of your brain are shouting Fuck No, but your next exhale is a slurry of curse words that somehow do a double reacharound to Fuck Yes.

You finish off your drink in two gulps. "Let's go."

He smirks. He pays the bartender and drops his sunglasses back over his eyes with a nod.

* * *

You feel like you're floating. He guides you into his flat, long fingers insistent but gentle at the small of your back. The hand slides up to your shoulder and pushes you down to sit on his couch, and you oblige, however hesitant. "Want anything from the kitchen?" he calls.

You're silent. What are you doing here, you wonder? Are you this desperate for a good lay that you'd go home with a total stranger? This was a bad idea, and the churn in your stomach confirms it. "Listen, I appreciate the offer, but I—"

And suddenly he's in front of you, standing just an inch too close, edging into your space. You look up at him with a scowl and dammit, he _laughs_ at you. "C'mon man, why don't we sit ourselves down right here and you can take a load off." His eyes hold a fire behind them that contrasts the laid-back demeanor and you can't quite place when he took his shades off again, but you don't care. You want to listen to him, want to sit back and allow someone else control for once. You're just... "Tired, huh?"

With a sigh, you nod and shrug a little. "Not that it's really any of your business," you add.

His head tilts slowly, steadily, and for a moment he reminds you of a snake charmer. He hums a low note that passes through you, a wave that reaches into your core to twist and untwist your insides. When his hands find your shoulders you do absolutely nothing to stop them. "Relationship trouble?" His thumbs knead the base of your neck.

You grunt, only indulging for a moment before brushing him off. "No, I mean other than my love life being stuck in a perpetual state of SNAFU." In a huff you flop back into the couch. Fine, if he wants to be a nosy douchebag, let him. "No, just idiots at work."

He slumps beside you. "Yeah, I feel you. Hey, what's your name, kid."

You want to hit him but kindly refrain. He has no business calling you 'kid,' you think; he looks three years older at most. "Excuse you, I'm twenty-six you ass. It's Karkat. Karkat Vantas."

"What's that some kinda Greek name?"

You look down at yourself, then back up again as if to say, 'seriously?' You roll your eyes. "I don't even know, my dad's some mix of Scandinavian and my mother is Nigerian, and half the time I have no idea what came from whom. Who the fuck cares?" You mean that about your name and more: who the fuck cares about your heritage, about your life, about _you_?

His hand is on your back again, his fingertips starting to dig soothingly into your shoulder blades. "Hmm. Maybe I-the-fuck-care?" You don't have a good answer for that. Because it doesn't really matter, does it, while those hands are running up and down your arms and back and pulling you into a trance. He tugs you closer, one of his legs hitched behind you against the couch back and the other hanging over the edge. Calloused fingertips dance at your sides, too-sharp nails grazing the sensitive skin beneath your hem. "Yeah, see, there you go, no use working yourself up into a lather, ain't no bar of Dove soap here, this is suds-free, good old fashioned warm water, gotta go with the flow," he murmurs around the shell of your ear, and Jesus fuck he really doesn't shut up does he, but you don't care. You don't care because that voice, that low, soft monotone that seeps through you, it washes away your worries.

There's a split second of panic—he can't take them away like that, you _need_ those, don't know how to function without something weighing down on you, anchoring you to reality—but he simply takes you in his arms and sways, and his presence whisks it all away again. He'll be your anchor, he'll keep you here, he'll keep you _safe_. When did you become so dependent on him? It doesn't make sense, and neither does he, and you stutter, "Wait, fuck, I can't—"

"Hush," he quiets you. Both his hands bury themselves in the rats' nest atop your head. They push upwards, spiking it up opposite the way it lies, and it sends ripples down your spine. Your head is tilted to your right, his lips grazing your neck. He reaches to hook a finger under your chin, guiding you to look at him. "This okay?" he asks.

Red eyes? Were they that colour before? You get lost in the lightning you see there and nod absentmindedly. His hands drop. He smiles and buries his face in the hair behind your ear. He noses his way along your pulse, placing fluttering kisses and all the while he doesn't stop rubbing at your sides. His tongue flits out to run along your vein, and that's it.

You melt. All the knots come undone, one by one each time he sucks there, and you're thankful for your abundant supply of turtlenecks or you'd have difficulty explaining this to your boss. There's sure to be a mark there, but none of your muscles listen when you think to push him away. The only twitches you manage serve to pull him closer, to demand more.

He hums again, slipping his hands up your shirt and nudging you to lift your arms. You comply, and—is that _you_ whining? "Yeah yeah," he says with a laugh, " 'bout to feel real good though, just see." You flop back against him with a pout, your eyes closing. He reaches down to palm you through your jeans and yeah, you figured that's where this was going. His mouth returns to the dark expanse of skin on your neck and by now your head feels fuzzy, like your brain's been replaced by cotton balls.

You stay like that for a while, (was it seconds? minutes? hours? you aren’t sure,) boneless in his arms, letting him take you, take you away and ravish you, guide you away from this earthly realm with nothing but light touches and sweet nothings.

Were you not the king of neuroticism you might have let yourself go completely, content to lay and give everything to him. Alas, you were never one to relinquish all parts of your control. The worry, the anxiety that bubbled beneath the surface at all hours of the day decides to rear its ugly head just in time for—

For bursting white-hot light. For pure, undiluted sensation to work its way into every part of you. At first you think he got you off—were you just too zonked out to notice?—but no, _no_ , this is more. You expected the feeling, (pleasure? pain? both?) to radiate from your dick but you find the waves rippling from your neck. It takes you seemingly forever to gather enough wits to realize the way his mouth is moving against you . . . it’s your life slipping away into his being and you’re just _letting it happen_. You try to flail, try to scream and shove him away but all that escapes is a pathetic whimper.

He shifts, apparently still in full control, and traces swirls just beneath your ribs. “So good,” he murmurs between strokes of his tongue, “so good, baby, you’re perfect. I need you, I love you, you’re perfect, so good for me.” He’s doing nothing to restrain you. It almost hurts more that he knows just how helpless you are. You don’t think to question why he’s doing this, who or what he is. Instead you think, _this is humiliating_ because you love it. You’d never admit that to anyone, that you love this, this is the best you’ve ever felt, because it hurts so good and tears you apart and reassembles you all at once. It is everything you didn’t know you wanted: to be needed. To be useful. To be taken away. 

Away from here.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first I've written for a vampire AU I was thinking about. This is meant to be a oneshot, but I might write more, someday. If you have any ideas or just want more indulgent filth like this, let me know! Who knows, maybe it'll be a series.


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